


Soldier's Ghost

by justbreathe



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-30 08:09:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3929386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justbreathe/pseuds/justbreathe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just an average visit by James to a memorial that immortalises a past life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soldier's Ghost

“Hey, Bucky.”

It’s a cool morning, the sun just rising high enough to cast the sky a brilliant orange. Light reflects sparsely over the back of the stone memorial, not blinding yet, but enough to make James squint as he makes his way to the other side and takes a seat in one of the available benches. Dew still clings to the metal, and is instantly cold against the seat of his pants. He doesn’t care that much, it’ll dry.

The name used to taste acrid in the back of his mouth like a horrid aftertaste. It’s still not pleasant, but he’s said it deliberately every time he visits here, and it’s gotten easier. ‘Bucky’ will never be his name, not even when Steve says it. 'Bucky’ belongs solely to a memory; this one. But he doesn’t want it to hurt. Enough already does.

“Good morning for it,” he says. The park is mostly empty, spare a couple of joggers and the homeless man who spends every Tuesday there. Tradition has James sharing a couple of cheeseburgers with him the weeks he’s in town. As the man – Ken Davies – smiles briefly at him in greeting, James smiles back and makes a mental note to stop by McDonald’s once he’s done here. Or maybe that milkshakes and burgers joint he’s been meaning to check out. He wonders what time they open, whether they’ll serve him lunch early if he flirts with the wait staff.

Moments pass quietly, as James soaks in the atmosphere and collects his thoughts. He got a couple of hours of sleep the previous night, so he’s feeling surprisingly refreshed. He decides that’s as good a place to start as any.

“Slept a little,” he states with a shrug, sitting back to gaze out at the memorial. Even with it feet away, he can pick out the name and face in seconds. They’re artifacts that haunt him. “Had a dream about you and the Commandos. I think that’s who it was, anyhow. They weren’t real friendly with you, but that could have been for a lot of reasons, I’m sure. You weren’t as likeable as people say you were.” James gives the tiny picture a smile. Bucky Barnes does not smile back. James feels as though this punctuates his point nicely.

“Steve’s doing well,” he picks up after an awkward moment. A young woman jogs by with a dog, and they both give him a double-take. He ignores them, but for a tiny smile to himself. “He’s back to doing work again, finally. It’s doing him good, getting out of the house. Having something more to worry about besides just me.” James was very glad when Steve first left, actually, although he wouldn’t admit it for fear of being misunderstood.

“I’ve been starting to look at some therapy techniques.” This is a little harder to admit, but he imagines Bucky Barnes is very invested in this topic. The ghost of the man leans forward, interested, and asks a very open 'oh?’. It feels like something he used to do to Steve Rogers, when they were friends, when Steve was having trouble talking. Which, now James thinks about it, was probably always, if not a lot had changed.

“The internet’s got a lot of suggestions for memory triggers. I figured, it worked at the Smithsonian, it’s worth a try. Ordered a couple of books – Steve’s got a lot already, but I think they make him uncomfortable, so I ordered some myself – and I’ve been watching some old history shows on Netflix. Mostly about the depression. Been trying to remember you.” There’s something painful in admitting that, something that renders itself on James’ face as a grimace, and pricks his eyes with the pressure of tears. He takes a moment to breathe, to reign in the strange feeling, and try to label it. He’s disappointed to realise he can’t.

“They also suggested music and smells and things. Which, okay, I can see – I do the same thing with the cold, or with water. But–” But James is terrified. He’s afraid that those memories won’t have anything to do with Bucky Barnes. There was enough in the files, enough rent out of him by the words of dying men, that he never wants to remember anything more of the past seventy years. Saying it aloud suddenly feels immense and impossible, but he knows it. He decides that’s enough.

James clears his throat and sits back again. His left arm hums very quietly where it rests against the back of the bench. The sun has risen a little higher and is now peeking over the top of the memorial. Behind him, the city is coming alive. Abruptly, James realises he hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday evening, and that he’s very hungry. Flirting lunch out of the wait staff at Marv’s is starting to sound like a pretty good idea.

“Anyway, you keep your chin up,” he says, and he knows that he means it for himself. The thought makes him smile as he moves to stand. For a moment, he stays where he is, plants his feet and faces the memorial to his ghost directly. Some days, he salutes the man. Some days, he just leaves. Today is somewhere in between. He stands there for some time in silence, and then gives Bucky Barnes a single nod and turns on his heel. It always feels like he’s leaving a piece of himself behind, but James doesn’t let it bother him. There’s so much more ahead now that anything less wouldn’t be doing either of them justice.


End file.
